Chapter 11: College Life

The next day, as Harry stepped out of his dormitory, he found Zhang Qiu standing in the corridor on the eighth floor. She leaned against the wall, flipping through a small notebook in her hands.

“Zhang!” Harry greeted her cheerfully. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you calling me, Harry?” Zhang Qiu came back to herself and smiled. “I thought you were sneezing—you’d better call me by my full name. Oh, by the way, I was worried you’d get lost in these twisting staircases, so I came to guide you.”

“I don’t think I’d be that lost…”

“You might not have noticed,” Zhang Qiu said, “but Hogwarts’ corridors aren’t easy to navigate. Many staircases move around; some are transparent, others are missing entire sections. Most doors won’t open—some need passwords, others refuse to open at all. Yet some walls, if you bump into them, reveal hidden passages.”

Harry’s expression turned bewildered.

“If you try to memorize their positions, be careful—the portraits on the walls wander around visiting each other, and the suits of armor stroll about. The best way is to remember exactly how far and in which direction you’ve walked. I got lost several times in my first year. My master said this labyrinth could be solved with Descartes’ coordinate system, but I’ve never found a wizard named Descartes in any book.”

“Is it really that bad?” Harry doubted, but he didn’t refuse Zhang Qiu’s kindness. “Then please help me—I have Transfiguration first.”

“Ron, you’d better stick close to me,” Zhang Qiu said. “I bet your troublemaker brother has given you plenty of wrong information.”

After winding through countless turns, Zhang Qiu led them straight to the third floor and tried to open the door at the end of the corridor. The three of them strained with all their might but couldn’t budge it. Only when Filch appeared at the other end of the hall did she grumble that she’d remembered wrong and took them another way to find the Transfiguration classroom.

Their Transfiguration teacher was Professor McGonagall, who sternly questioned why Zhang Qiu was there. Zhang Qiu explained that Harry had lost his way, and McGonagall let her go. After Zhang Qiu left, Ron complained that they could’ve just jumped down from above and taken the stairs to the second floor—no need to wind down floor by floor.

Harry then realized Hogwarts was a school—a magical one. If the school dared to build staircases with missing steps, it must have protective charms to prevent students from falling. Still, jumping directly was clearly impolite.

Professor McGonagall was a strict woman. In her first lesson, she sternly warned everyone not to fool around in her class. Then she demonstrated a remarkable trick—turning a desk into a small pig—and instantly won the students’ admiration.

The afternoon’s Charms professor was a very short man. Harry knew such people were called “dwarves.” Most dwarves were clever, and Professor Flitwick was no exception—he was said to have won several Dueling Championship titles.

After Charms came Herbology. They went to the greenhouses behind the castle to handle strange fungi and plants. Harry noticed that Neville seemed to have a natural talent for Herbology—he could quickly and accurately identify herbs and explain their uses in detail, which greatly impressed him.

After Herbology, Harry met Zhang Qiu again on the way back to the castle. She told him that studying in the common room was inefficient; she preferred the library, where it was quiet, undisturbed, and he could quickly find the materials he needed.

Harry had always liked studying in the study room. After dinner, he gathered his books and prepared to head to the library. Ron, however, was reluctant—he wanted to play chess in the dormitory.

They had barely set up the chessboard when Neville returned. He stared at Harry in surprise and exclaimed loudly, “McGonagall assigned so much homework, and Flitwick’s spells need practice—you’re playing chess?”

For a moment, Harry found Neville annoying.

“Will these little toys improve your magical ability? Can you defeat the Dark Lord by playing wizard chess?” Neville demanded. “Is the Chosen One’s job to spend every day laughing and playing games?”

“Uh, sorry,” Harry knew he was wrong to play before finishing his work. He picked up his books and whispered, “Let’s go to the library.”

“I’ll read in the dorm,” Ron grumpily packed away the chess pieces. “I’ll keep reading that alchemy book.”

Harry circled the stairs several times before finding the library. He walked in and looked around—almost every seat was taken. He spotted the small witch who looked like a squirrel—Hermione, he thought—and noticed an empty chair beside her.

But just then, Neville sat down in that chair. Hermione smiled at him, and the two began studying together.

Harry moved further inside and immediately spotted Zhang Qiu—she had two empty seats beside her.

“Isn’t Ron coming?” Zhang Qiu asked softly as Harry approached with his books.

“He’s reading a novel in the dorm,” Harry knew exactly what Ron meant by “alchemy book.”

“What a shame,” she said, picking up a book from one of the empty chairs.

“Did you save these seats for us?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Zhang Qiu nodded, placing the book atop her pile and smiling at him.

Harry was enchanted by her gentle smile. He stared blankly for a long moment before snapping back to himself, spreading out his parchment and trying to write something. But he found it impossible to concentrate—he kept glancing around.

At that moment, he noticed the book Zhang Qiu had taken. On its spine was the title: *The Lore of the Elder Wand*.

Harry instantly remembered the fairy tale he’d read last night. Curious, he asked, “Could I take a look at this book?”

“Of course,” Zhang Qiu said. “I won’t need it tonight—I just borrowed it to save the seat.”

The book stated: “The widely known fairy tale *The Tale of the Three Brothers* may not be merely a tale. Rumors persist that whoever gathers the three Deathly Hallows may conquer Death. This volume seeks to investigate the possible existence of the Elder Wand.”

Beginning with Antioch Peverell, the eldest brother, through countless murders, bloodshed, and betrayals, no owner had ever truly mastered this powerful wand. Harry quickly grew tired of the story—people obtained it through vile or cruel means, then lost it through even viler and crueler ones.

After reading only a few pages, Harry put the book back and focused on writing McGonagall’s essay.

When they parted that night, Zhang Qiu said she had class the next morning and couldn’t guide Harry to his room. She sounded genuinely apologetic.

Harry felt embarrassed. He explained that he now understood Hogwarts’ strange corridors and would leave earlier to find his classrooms—she didn’t need to go out of her way.

“That’s wonderful,” Zhang Qiu smiled and bid him farewell.

On the third day, Harry woke early. He had plenty of time to find his way and arrived at class on time. It was Professor Quirrell’s Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry was curious about Defense Against the Dark Arts—in fact, he was curious about every subject.

“We can see here,” Quirrell said slowly, painfully slow, “a few practical little techniques. You may practice them at home. Remember, if you only attend this class and don’t spend hours afterward practicing, you will never learn… to defend against the Dark Arts.”

Harry knew Quirrell’s pace was to avoid stuttering, but it still made listening unbearable.

“Let’s first look at this illustration,” Quirrell said. “This is an Ouroboros—a serpent devouring its own tail. It symbolizes infinity, cyclical return, profoundly magical. It reminds me of the Mercury Serpent: the end of time is also its beginning. Three Mercury Serpents biting each other’s tails form the Wheel of Fate. Luck and misfortune are also cycles. When you’ve enjoyed success for over a decade, it’s time for your enemies to rise…”

Harry, tortured by Quirrell’s pace, grew drowsy. Worse, Quirrell ignored the Spark Charm entirely and launched into an obsessive interpretation of a decorative illustration—Harry found it deeply frustrating.

When Harry realized he’d missed part of the lecture, he found the next part incomprehensible.

“...Thus, the more powerful a wizard, the closer he is to his end. For extraordinary qualities must remain constant: what is separated must reunite, and what reunites must be separated again. For example, Headmaster Dumbledore is immensely powerful, but his power is not eternal. That is why he chose to become Headmaster and distribute authority to others. And you, as his students, will eventually consume that extraordinary power entirely…”

“I don’t understand what he’s saying,” Harry whispered to Ron.

“That we’ll become as powerful as Dumbledore someday?” Ron said uncertainly. “Maybe. I don’t get it either—he’s speaking too obscurely.”

“Now, let’s return to the Spark Charm,” Quirrell finally returned to the topic, after what felt like hours. “Who would like to try casting it?”

After half a lesson of theory, no student dared raise a hand. Quirrell picked up his list.

“Harry Potter,” he said. “Would you like to try?”

“I—”

“Never mind,” Quirrell looked disappointed. “If even the Chosen One can’t do it, what’s left to say? Just read your books. Whoever learns it may come up and try.”

Harry quickly flipped through the textbook—he’d read it several times over the summer. The Spark Charm, Lumos, Disarming Charm, Smoke Screen—only a few main spells. The rest were minor variations: changing the Spark’s color, brightening or dimming Lumos, then brief introductions to Dark creatures.

Honestly, if all he had to do was read, Harry didn’t think this class was particularly advanced. But from Quirrell’s cryptic ramblings, he suspected Defense Against the Dark Arts was far harder than he’d imagined.